The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction(72)

                “Who is Esme?” The old man had accidentally called Fern that for the second time right before Zafir had cut short their post-meal chatter.

                “My grandmother. You don’t look anything like her. She was quite short, had black hair and eyes like mine, so I thought for a minute he’d had one too many whiskeys, but I think it’s your manner that made him think of her. She was quiet and thoughtful the way you are. The rest of us are scrappers, determined to jump in ahead of everyone else and take control. She was always an influence of calm, taking time to think about things before she reacted.” He released the zip on her dress and his light touch sent a ripple of pleasure through her.

                “I’m not calm, I’m terrified,” she admitted.

                “About coming with me to Q’Amara?” He touched her shoulder, urging her to turn to face him.

                “I meant in general, but...” His mother’s anxiety had been contagious. The whole time she’d been answering questions about where she grew up and who she knew through Miss Ivy and when she was due, she’d been thinking about where Zafir expected her to sleep and what her future with him might hold.

                A firm kick nudged her from her absorption into a light gasp and a touch on the spot where the baby was insisting more space was needed.

                “Are you okay?” Zafir frowned at her belly.

                She chuckled. “As far as personalities go, I think we’ve created another scrapper. Quite pushy,” she pronounced with rueful affection, liking what he’d said about his family and how he’d intimated she had a place in it that was notable and valued.

                “Can I...?” His gaze fixed on her belly and his hands came up. He hesitated as he looked to her for permission.

                Her nerves jolted like an electric shock had run through her, pushing a flood of tingling warmth into her inner thighs. He hadn’t even touched her!

                The strength of her anticipation startled her. Her life had been fairly devoid of human contact before he had taught her how wonderful it could be. Since then, especially in the last few months, she’d discovered some people loved touching pregnant women. Strangers asked to pat her belly. Sometimes they didn’t even ask, but this was different.

                This was Zafir. She had been aching for his touch since forever. And it was his baby. Emotions, already amplified by pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm her.

                “I— Of course,” she said huskily, quivering with tension like liquid at the rim of a cup. She lifted her hands and waited.

                At first he barely grazed her with splayed fingertips, like she was a soap bubble that would burst at the least pressure. The thought made her lips twitch and she covered his hands, showing him how to press firmly enough to find the baby’s shape.

                “That’s the bum. And this is where—oh! Did you feel that? Must be a knee, right?”

                He choked a breath of laughter. “Doesn’t that hurt?” He explored gently where the nudge had happened.

                She shrugged. “Not really. Takes me by surprise. Keeps me awake sometimes. I honestly don’t think either of us will get much sleep if I—”

                “Shh.” Discovery of magic played across his face. “It must be so strange,” he said with quiet reverence, shifting the lace on the silk of her slip as he moved his hands around the shape of her belly. “Can you even wrap your mind around it? That’s our child that we made, right there. I can feel it, but I can hardly believe it. Are you scared? About the delivery?”